Swan for the Money(73)

Another police car pulled up and another officer stepped out and squelched over to where Horace was working.

“I’ll leave them to it for the time being and take you back to your vehicle,” the chief said, turning on the ignition. “Just one more thing. Does this have anything to do with what your grandfather and Caroline Willner have been up to this afternoon?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “What have they been up to?”

“Good question,” he said. But he didn’t answer it.

“I was wondering myself if this had anything to do with the dognapping,” I said. “And if either the dognapping or the cattle rustling had anything to do with the attempts on Mrs. Winkleson’s life.”

“Also good questions,” he said, again without answering.

The whole way back to my car, he carried on a conversation with Debbie Ann, the dispatcher, about where on his desk to find some paperwork he wanted faxed to the State Bureau of Investigation ASAP. He dropped me beside my car and wished me a polite, if curt, good night.

Once I was safely in my car, I dug in the backseat and found one of the cans of Diet Coke I’d thrown in in case I needed a caffeine boost during the day.

I started at a tap on my window. The chief. I rolled the window down.

“Trouble starting your car?” he asked.

I held up the can.

“Trouble starting me,” I said. “A little caffeine to get me home.”

I popped the top, took a deep swig, and tucked the can in the cup holder. The chief waited until I’d fastened my seat belt, and started the engine before he drove off. Back to the new crime scene, I assumed.

This might have nothing at all to do with the day’s first crime scene, I thought, as I turned my car around to head for the gate. Maybe the cattle rustlers just happened to pick to night for their raid even before the events of today. Maybe they’d picked it for the weather. Even when it wasn’t raining, the cloud cover made visibility even lower than at the dark of the moon. Maybe they’d heard about the murder and the poisoning and decided to take advantage of the resulting confusion.

Or did the stolen cows have anything to do with why someone kept trying to kill Mrs. Winkleson?

I’d interrogate my grandfather and Caroline tomorrow. And maybe—

My hip vibrated. I stopped to fumble in my pocket for the cell phone. Michael, of course.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he said, not even bothering with hello. “I completely forgot how late it was.” Behind him I could hear the cheerful babble of voices.

“I was up,” I said. “Are you in a bar?”

“Restaurant. We’ve been celebrating the death of Millard! The Musical! On the whole, our protégé is taking it philosophically. Of course, you’d be philosophical too if you’d had six martinis with only a single slice of pizza as ballast. Where are you?”

“In my car, about to head home,” I said.

“You haven’t been working all this time on that silly rose show!”

“No, I’ve been up because someone tried to poison Mrs. Winkleson at the cocktail party, and then I stumbled on thieves attempting to steal her Belties.”

“Belties? Is that some kind of geriatric unmentionable?”

“Belties, Belted Galloways. Those black-and-white cows.”

“Seriously? You foiled some cattle rustlers?”

“Not really,” I said. “They got at least one cow. Maybe more. I have no idea if the police will be able to follow them. But I did rescue two cows.”

“Awesome!”

Clearly Michael had been celebrating with a few martinis of his own and was in the mood to talk. Normally I don’t drive while on the cell phone, but I decided to make an exception. I put the phone on speaker, used a piece of duct tape from my tote to strap it to the dashboard, and drove slowly home, sipping my soda while I filled Michael in on the events of the past six or seven hours.

In spite of the caffeine and Michael’s conversation, I was half asleep by the time I reached the house. Still, before dragging myself upstairs, I went through the kitchen to make sure Spike was safely asleep in his crate. He must have had a lively day. He didn’t even wake up when I shoved a dog biscuit through the mesh in the door.

“I hope Mimi—” I began, and then stopped myself. What did I hope for Mimi? I had been about to say “comes home safe and sound as soon as possible.” But was Mrs. Winkleson’s chilly, forbidding house much of a home for a little dog? Maybe the best thing for Mimi would be to escape her dognappers and find her way to someone who wouldn’t know a pedigreed Maltese from a pound puppy. Someone who would take her in and treat her with the kindness and affection that might have been sadly absent from her life so far.